


Dreams Do Show Me Thee

by 221b_hound



Series: Star-crossed [3]
Category: Richard III - Shakespeare, Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dream Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Reincarnation, Rimming, Shakespearean style language, Strength Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2387516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has bad dreams about a future that will never come to pass - because the Richard he once was did lose his Khan once. Sherlock promises that loss will never be. And in better dreams, that are also memories, Richard and Khan lie together again in that glade where they met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams Do Show Me Thee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> The title is from William Shakespeare's Sonnet 43. This Richard is based on Martin Freeman's portrayal of Shakespeare's Richard, and has nothing to do with historical Richard III, who wasn't such a bad chap.
> 
> And, as always, fuck you Atlinmerrick, for insisting I write more Homicidal Dream Boyfriends with Rimming. I <3 you like the very devil.
> 
> [This series now has cover art! ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2398139)

John’s recurring dream was vivid and awful. Sherlock, high up, arms stretched wide, black coat whipping in the wind, face full of sorrow.

“I must leave,” came Sherlock’s anguished voice, “I have no choice.”

And John reached towards him, saying, “You do. Take me with you.”

“I must keep you safe,” said Sherlock-on-high, his voice a whisper but John could hear him as though Sherlock stood at his side.

“What is safety to me?” John said back, low but clear, “I will slay Moriarty for us both, only do not forsake me.”

“Never,” said Sherlock, “Thou art my heart and soul, and I swear will return for thee.”

“Do not swear it,” John snarled, his voice no longer his own, “Make no oath that you cannot for certain keep.”

“I shall keep it though it take me lives beyond counting,” said Sherlock, only no longer Sherlock, and in place of the coat was a skin-tight suit of black, and his hair was combed back straight. “I love thee and will return for thee. I swear.”

“I had no beauty or joy, until you saw them in me,” said not-John, despairing.

“Nor had I tenderness, until you, fearless, found it in me,” said not-Sherlock… tenderly.

“I will wait,” not-John swore, “And believe in thee.”

“Your faith is my faith’s reward,” not-Sherlock replied, “I will destroy our enemy and return for thee, my love. My prince.”

And not-Sherlock stepped from whatever platform held him high, and he fell like a stone while not-John cried out his name.

“ _Khan!!”_

And Khan vanished in the air, leaving the sky empty-blue and the man who was John but not John felt the air leave his lungs and despair seize his heart, but he held fast to the promise.

 _I will believe in thee, my warrior. My beloved. Return to me. You swore you would. You swore it so_.

*

John’s eyes flew open. His chest heaved with the effort to breathe. His lip and brow beaded with cold sweat.

“John…”

John heaved another sob of air and he sat bolt upright, trying to calm his obviously unnecessary grief.

“I… I…”

“It’s that recurring dream again,” Sherlock noted, “Where I fall.”

John, unable to speak, nodded.

“Moriarty is no longer a threat.”

“I know,” John managed.

“That scenario was one possibility, but…”

Sherlock fell silent at the horrified glare John levelled at him.

“But it is no longer a contingency for which I must plan,” he finished.

“Logic is not a component in this, Sherlock,” John sniped, feeling stupid and still shakingly vulnerable.

“Clearly not.” A beat. “Who is Khan?”

John blinked rapidly. Scrubbed at his face with his hands. “I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone of that name. Does it matter? I’m not even really _me_ in the dream, and it’s you that falls. It’s always you. It’s only ever been you I dreamed of.”

Sherlock held still, beside him on the bed. “Only ever…?”

“I dreamt of you before I ever met you,” mumbled John, “All right? The minute I saw you I thought you were… familiar. It was months before I realised I’d dreamed of you before.”

“Nonsense,” snorted Sherlock.

But Sherlock knew that he had dreamed of John, too. The moment he had seen John, it was like he was rediscovering an old friend. An old love. When he realised later that he had dreamed… not John’s face, but a presence, indistinct visually but in spirit, oh, so obviously John – well, he’d dismissed the whole thing as one of those brain chemistry mishaps that resulted in _déjà vu_. Just a neural feedback loop. Nothing more.

John only grimaced in reply, but Sherlock had sat up beside him now, an arm around his back. Sherlock nuzzled against John’s ear.

“Never mind. It only matters that it’s nothing but a dream. That course of events has changed utterly. Moriarty is straitjacketed and in custody, and he can’t threaten us now.”

“You would have gone,” muttered John, unwilling yet to be mollified.

“To keep you safe, of course.”

John’s lip curled disdainfully. “Fuck safe. I don’t do _safe_ , Sherlock. If I did, I wouldn’t be _here_.”

Sherlock had nothing to say to that. He wasn’t a huge fan of safe himself, but he and Mycroft had extrapolated the possible results, and that had been one limb of the logic tree. And Sherlock would have followed it willingly, if there were no other way to keep John alive. He’d waited too long to find him again, too many lives, and had sworn he would find him…

_What the hell?_

To distract himself from the strange flow of thought, Sherlock nuzzled John’s neck some more, and cradled John’s jaw in his hand.

“It’s all moot,” he murmured, “I have no need to leave you, let alone any desire to do so, particularly in so dramatic a fashion. Come here. That’s it.”

He wrapped his arms around John, and John cuddled up close, willing now to let Sherlock’s presence soothe him.

They kissed, and mouthed at each other’s skin. Touched gently then less gently, soft affection building to hot desire, until with loud cries and breathing sighs they climaxed and then wrapped limbs dozily around each other, returning to sleep, sated, safe together, in deep and dreaming love.

*

When next he dreamed, he was in a glade sitting with his back to a sun-warmed rock. He was naked, as was his love, who was stretched out on the woven blanket from the saddlebag, noble head resting in his lap, pale skin dappled in shadow and light.

Richard combed the fingers of his left hand through the straight, dark hair of his Khan, keeping it back from that high, intelligent brow.

“Do I dream of thee?” Richard asked, “Or thou of me?”

“Does it matter,” asked Khan, “When we but dream of each other when we may?”

“This is not a dream,” said Richard, “But a memory.”

“Aye,” agreed Khan, “A most happy memory.”

Khan enclosed a large, warm hand around Richard’s withered one, and he lipped the unmoving but not unfeeling fingers of Richard’s right hand. Richard watched him do so, eyes soft in a way his brothers and mother would never imagine possible.

“No-one breathes,” said Richard, “Who doth encompass all the virtues, but thee. Thou art beautiful as the stars and strong as the earth. All knowledge lies behind that noble brow, and all merry wisdom in thy smile. How came such perfection to my glade, to win my trust, given to none, before or since? How came such a warrior to storm the castle of my heart, yet won the sovereignty of it with so scarce a siege?”

Khan left off his amorous suckling of Richard’s hand. “Never did so stalwart a castle open its gates to me before. I but bowed my head with true repentance to your mercy and forgiveness for you to allow me across the threshold. It is not a boast,” he added, “But a marvel.”

Richard smiled. “And yet within the hour, we were at swords drawn, and did die the little death each with joyous surrender to the other.”

Khan laughed. “I will throw myself upon your sword again, oh Duke, and hap’ly die again.” Then he resumed the researches with is tongue of Richard’s fingertips, sensing such minute reactions as he could. That withered limb was not wholly devoid of feeling, for all it barely moved. Khan loved so to lavish it with soft attention, that part of Richard so otherwise scorned.

Richard leaned low to breathe to him, “I will find a kingly sheath for thee, my love, full welcoming your mighty sword.”

Khan smiled lazily, lustily, around Richard’s fingers, then he kissed them and gazed at his lover, considering.

“You are not afraid of me,” said Khan with a level of both wonder and puzzlement, “Nor do you look to me for leadership. I think this is the thing I love best about you. I can be…” He thought about it. “Weak, with you.”

“Say not ‘weak’,” admonished Richard gently, “But instead, ‘at ease’, for you are never weak. I am humbled that you lay your strength aside for a time, as a lion with a lamb.”

“Rather, a lion with a _hawk_ ,” laughed Khan softly, “All right, then. At ease, then, my prince - no matter how often in your presence I am, in fact… at attention.” He bit at Richard’s fingers, hard enough to feel but not enough to harm.

Richard grinned and tugged playful-sharp on Khan’s hair, making his lover hiss with pleasure-pain.

“And with you, my resting lion,” he said, “I may be my unedited self – you see not less, nor yet more, but exactly who and what I am, and accept the whole.”

“Say not ‘accept’ but ‘embrace’,” countered Khan, “For who and what you are, exactly as you are, delights me.”

Richard wound a lock of Khan’s hair around his finger then pulled away gently, allowing the length of fine, dark hair to slip silkily over his skin and fall in a loop against Khan’s brow. Then he let his fingers drift over Khan’s cheeks and jaw, down his long throat and his hard-muscled chest, over the flat muscles of his warrior’s pale stomach, and into the confined forest of curls, and thence over Khan’s stirring prick.

“I shall embrace thee,” murmured Richard, stroking Khan to fullness, “And delight you, too.”

Khan placed Richard’s right hand carefully by Richard’s side, and sat up to kiss his generous Gloucester’s mouth. He trailed fingers through his prince’s beard and held his jaw, so that he could press his open mouth to Richard’s, and moan his pleasure straight through to his love’s tongue, his spine, his heart, while Richard fondled and stroked him to yet greater hardness.

“Let me,” whispered Khan, and Richard tilted his head back onto the rocky pillow behind him, and drew his legs up, so that Khan could kiss him, from the hollow of his throat to the hollow between his legs. Khan held Richard’s thighs, and Richard spread his legs further yet, so that Khan could kiss and lick him in that most secret place.

Khan made Richard’s hole wet, and he made Richard gasp with wanting, and he swiped delicate fingers over the crown of Richard’s prick, to gather slickness that he then pressed against Richard’s entrance.

“Do not wait,” Richard groaned, “Tis enough. Let me ride thee.”

They shifted then, so that Khan sat with his back against the warm and towering rock, and Richard straddled him. He held his stiff prick straight and Richard, grinning, more wolf than hawk, found his seat of his love’s lap.

Richard kissed Khan fiercely as he bore down, taking Khan fully inside – finding pleasure in the sting and burn of it even before the bump of it against that exquisite spot made him grunt with carnal satisfaction.

“Thou,” said Richard, kiss-biting Khan’s cheek, “Art,” and his ear, “A most,” and his throat, “Satisfactory,” and his lips, “Mount.”

Khan laughed breathlessly. Richard, an excellent horseman, had strong legs, the muscles of his thighs supple and subtle and commanding.

“Ride me, then,” he breathed back, stopping to bite back, scrapes of teeth against Richard’s shoulder, “This steed submits to you.”

He lifted Richard’s right hand so that it rested in the crux between Khan’s shoulder and neck, while Richard wrapped his left in Khan’s hair, not pulling now, but holding steady as with knees and thighs, he lifted and sank down on Khan’s thick, full shaft. Richard shifted slightly and rocked, angling his body so that the crown of Khan’s prick bumped and bumped and bumped against that sweet spot, and he moaned at the pleasure he took from it.

But Richard was mindful, too, of his lover’s needs, and as he moved, he circled his hips, and he clenched his rear muscles to make Khan gasp at the sudden tightness. He bit and sucked at Khan’s throat and shoulders, leaving red marks on pale skin to say, this man is claimed and Khan, loving the feel of his prince’s teeth in him as much as he loved the heat of his prince’s body, made sounds almost like speech that were only comprehensible to a foreign god.

Richard moved in close, pressing his chest to Khan’s, so that his own stiff prick bumped often against Khan’s belly, yet not enough to bring him to climax. He pulled lightly at Khan’s hair, and kissed him, and thrust his hips down hard, and he moaned an almost heart-breaking pleasure at the feel of Khan so deeply inside him, body yes, and soul too.

“Richard, oh, god, Richard, R…”

Richard ground his hips down. “Yes,” he said gruffly, “Take thy pleasure. Be rough as though wilt. Do it.”

Khan seized Richard by the hips to still him and begun to thrust upward in steady strokes, then faster, and faster.

Richard still managed to move, curling his spine a little, giving back friction for each push up. “I will not break,” he said, “Harder.”

Khan kept his grip on Richard’s left hip with one hand, curved the other around the small of Richard’s back to hold tight, a welcome force to hold Richard’s body steady as Khan thrust up, fucking him hard, fast, faster yet until…

Khan’s body shuddered with climax, and yet he held tight to Richard, fucking him hard yet, and Richard, legs spread wide and clamped around Khan’s hips, threw his own head back and panted with glorious approval at being thus used. As Khan’s rhythm slowed, Richard moved his hips again in a sensuous curl, to relish the sensation of his lover’s prick inside him.

Finally, Khan slumped against the rock, laughing with exhausted delight.

“Truly,” he said, “You have a very good seat.”

Richard’s answering laugh was a kind of breathless snort. “Tis easy to keep it when thou art such a thoroughbred.”

Khan bit and then suckled on Richard’s shoulder. “You are yet unsatisfied.” Richard’s hard prick still pushed into his stomach.

“What satisfaction do you offer me?” It was asked with amused anticipation. Khan could be inventive.

“Any you can name.”

“Show me, then, your strength, oh lion.”

Khan’s winter eyes sparkled. “Do you trust me, then?”

“With more than my life,” replied Richard earnestly.

“Steady yourself on the rock above my head, then,” said Khan, and he scooped his hands under Richard’s thighs and lifted.

Richard’s good hand shot out to push against the rock and keep his balance as Khan lifted him, moved him until Richard’s prick was at the level of Khan’s mouth.

“Hold with your knees,” said Khan, and Richard clamped his knees and thighs around Khan’s shoulders just in time, as Khan slipped his hot, sweet mouth over Richard’s cock and began to suck.

Richard moaned and would have fallen, but for Khan’s strong hands and arms holding him aloft. Richard splayed his hand against the rock for better anchorage and looked down his own body, to his love’s dark head moving between Richard’s spread thighs, to his love’s wide, perfect mouth sucking and stroking Richard’s thick, hot, heavy shaft.

Khan’s fingers squeezed Richard’s thighs, at the curve of his arse, and to Richard it signalled permission, and he thrust shallowly into that exquisite mouth. Khan squeezed his skin again, softly, encouragingly, and with a joyous cry, Richard thrust again, tiny movements, the shallow yet spirited push of his prick into that beautiful mouth, that sucked and licked at him.

The warm sun dappled over Richard’s skin now, his face thrown back in ecstasy, his chest beaded over with perspiration, a breeze over his bared backside, his thighs, his feet, only his hand in the rock and Khan’s warm hands along his thighs, and Khan’s mouth on his cock, sucking and sliding to meet those shallow, wanton ardent thrusts, connected him to the earth, until with a great cry, Richard came, hard.

He might have fallen back, only Khan shifted his hands, sliding them up Richard’s back to hold him steady, and pulling him close, so that their bodies fit together in an embrace as though they were moulded to be a single piece.

Richard tucked his face into the hollow of Khan’s throat and lay there, panting, content. Khan kissed his hair.

“My prince,” he murmured.

“My lion,” Richard murmured back, and bit Khan’s clavicle, the licked and kissed the spot.

Khan cuddled Richard closer. “I am,” he said, “Yours.”

*

Sherlock woke from the dream, hard. He was spooned behind John, and could feel his cock pressed against the cheeks of John’s arse.

John murmured and wriggled, pressing that arse rather temptingly against Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock moaned, his arms wrapping more tightly around John.

John lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, and he kissed the knuckles. He thrust his backside against Sherlock’s cock again.

“Lube’s in the drawer,” he said breathlessly, “Go on. Do it. I want you. I want to feel you.”

Sherlock kissed the back of John’s neck. “My prince,” he breathed softly, thrusting sensuously against the willing skin.

“Yes,” murmured John, “Yours.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Dreams Do Show Me Thee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347692) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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